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Inspiration. However, flicking through her thick and dense sketchbook in fascination, I begin to notice something. Something quite distinct, in fact. There are two styles here.

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Just another day, sitting on a bench with a notebook on my lap and I'm scribbling out random dribbles and drabbles of thought. They're melting together, but not making sense, and the sketches of nothing in the corners bordering it are starting to worry me. The pages get ripped out and thrown into the already-overflowing rubbish bin in a slapdash fashion. If only I could stop trying so hard to think of something, then maybe I'd have a slight chance of coming up with anything productive today. Birds... a cloudy September sky... a couple of bored-looking kids kicking a football around aimlessly... Whoever ingeniously alleged the great outdoors was the best place for inspiration, beyond doubt needs to rethink. I start to doodle in the blankness of my empty page to make it seem slightly less demoralizing. A little sketchy heart here, a couple of quick pentagrams there - I don't know why I didn't take A-Level art instead. Of course, I then draw the ever-dominating stick man who I happen to name Jimmy. This time he's feeling a bit frustrated since he cannot seem to think of anything to write. ...read more.


I have to say, it is a slight shock to the system, no matter how much I preferred her simple answer. "I'm Cassie, nice to meet you," I reply. Attempting to hide the slight blush in my cheeks, I shake her ice-cold hand. She doesn't reply with her own name, but I don't ask it - it would make me seem interfering. We sit in silence; her pencil scratching across the paper, and my pen suddenly whispering across my own page in my notebook with ease. It's suddenly so clear and obvious, I can feel my thoughts rushing down into my hand and into my cheap pen, my mind immersed in the words in my head. About forty-five minutes passes by before she finishes her drawing, and to my surprise offers it to me. Looking up from my now not-so-empty notebook I make out that I am in it, looking serious and chewing on my battered pen. It isn't my best angle, but I'd be crazy to even think about thinking of complaining - the insane amount of detail she's put into the sketch is mind-boggling; it looks so accurate it could easily have been photographed. ...read more.


My chest tightens. I stop shaking. I can't breathe. She looks up at me, smiles, and offers me my notebook back, giving me the impression that she is completely unaware of what I have just seen. I don't understand. Why would she draw such devastation and destruction? Such haunting scenes... such powerful, yet formidable images to put in peoples' minds... why? Taking her notebook back she scribbles something in the corner of another blank page. She rips it out and hands it to me - without even a simple word or gesture to enlighten me. She gets up and walks away, hair soaring in the sudden gust of wind which takes me by surprise subsequent to the uncanny stillness of the past few seconds. Or was it minutes? Now I look at the paper, and at the number now scribbled in the corner. There's a time, and the name of a place, and a date. Maybe I'll go; maybe I'll see what she has to say. Maybe a lot of things. I decide I will go. I hide my notebook. No one needs to ever see it again. *** Two days later, and the building in her notebook burns down. The funny thing is - I'm not surprised. ?? ?? ?? ?? English Original Creative Writing Arta Ajeti 10B.2 Page 1 ...read more.

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